The Shootist
by InCeruleanInk
Summary: It's the spring of '93 and Dean is learning to shoot a gun that might be too big for him. A One-Shot.


**Spring, 1993**

The pistol is heavy in Dean's childish hands. He's never held one, before, but Dad says it's time. And Dad knows best. Dad says he has to go, he has to put things to rights, but he says he can't do that unless Dean can look after Sammy. Dad's eyes are sharp and he's watching every move Dean makes.

"You're leaning too far over," he remarks, voice gruff as usual. "You can't support it like that. When it goes off, it'll knock you right over, like that."

Dean doesn't say anything. Dad has to put things to rights, he says. He can still see Mom pinned to the ceiling, feel the heat of the fire on his skin, hear the sound of her piteous shrieks. Dean can still remember it, but Dad still lives it. Dean wishes he didn't hear Dad howling in the night until he finally wakes from his nightmares and he wishes that Mom was there to sooth him, again, like she used to. Dean wishes she could be there for Sammy, too, and for himself. But she can't come back and, anyway, it'll all be ok, soon: Dad's gonna put things to rights. The only thing standing in his way is Dean. Dean needs to be able to look after Sammy.

He wonders if Sammy can remember her. Sammy's eyes are soft and warm, the way Mom's would look when she was tucking him into bed. _Angels are watching over you._

Dad's hands are calloused as they grasp Dean's soft ones, correcting his grip. "Here, the butt goes against your thumb, like this."

Sammy is watching, too, but Sammy's just a little kid and he's looking at the sky, watching birds flap through the cerulean sky more than he's watching his brother struggle. He only looks back to them to smile when he hears Dean's voice. Sammy's dreamy and Dean likes that about him. Sammy's never known life to be any different than this and it rolls off his back. Dean likes that Sammy doesn't need to know because, then, he can be happy. Sammy doesn't feel the heat of those flames.

"It's heavy," mutters Dean and instantly he knows that was a mistake. "I can't carry this."

"You don't get used to it and you never will." Dad's voice is stern but there's worse, still. Dean knows the look in his eyes all too well: disappointment. Dad's chewing on an idea he doesn't like. Dean can see the way the lines in his face are drawing downwards and pulling taut. "You _need_ to learn this, Dean."

He bows his head. He knows he's the cause of this. He shouldn't have said anything: he's put one more burden on Dad and Dad has enough on his mind. Mom wouldn't have let this happen. Mom would've known what to say. She was the one who kept them together, looked after them. _Hey Jude, don't make it bad._ Dean nods. "Yessir," he mutters and raises the pistol once again in his trembling arms.

Dad is shaking his head. He doesn't need to say anything because his disappointment is palpable. And no wonder: Dean is always failing him. Yesterday, it was not being able to make breakfast, today it's the pistol. How is Dad supposed to do everything without any help? Dean used to be able to help Mom and she'd always hold him close, whisper, _my little angel_. But he can't seem to help Dad, who's crossing his arms over his chest and turning away with a sigh. Dad's the smart one, Dean thinks. Mom relied on Dean and Mom died.

He pulls back on the trigger and Dad's eyes are alert and on him, again. "Steady, now, Dean," he warns. "Careful or you'll miss."

Dean takes a deep breath. He tilts his head, sighting down the barrel like Dad showed him when, suddenly, he hears Sammy's voice. "He's not gonna miss," he says and his words settle into Dean with a surge of pride. He can't let his baby brother down, not like he let Mom and Dad down. Sammy deserves better. Dean takes the shot.

The recoil knocks him back, just like Dad predicted but Dean jumps quickly to his feet. The aftershock of the bullet is still resounding around them and Sammy has his hands clapped over his ears but Dean's eyes are already heading urgently down field. At once, both he and Sammy let out a whoop of triumph. The target is down.

Even Dad is cracking a smile and he reaches out to ruffle Dean's hair. "You're a natural."

Sammy slaps Dean's shoulder like Bobby would. "See, Dad? I told you. Dean can do _anything_."


End file.
